meadowlarklogs | catch-all.

[ Getting exercise is important, she's been told - (and often thought, in response, why waste oxygen telling me things I already know?) - especially while her leg gets used to being pinned and stapled into place, it's necessary that her muscles don't atrophy from disuse. By now, she's been able to downgrade the cumbersome orthopedic cast for a ribbed brace made largely out of thick velcro and plastic. Crutches are still a necessity to get from Point A to Point B, but the real advantage of the brace is she can wear it over her trousers. (As the kids say, score.

On her days off, she's taken to aimless wandering to keep her blood pumping. On one day, particularly sweltering, she ducks into a gallery in the middle of the art district - ostensibly, just to cool down, and maybe to check out any artwork she'd like to buy once she's (ahem) flush with cash again.

A familiar face gets her attention. (What is he doing? Why is he here? What is his body language? Answer these questions for me, Jen.) Leaning heavily on one crutch, she gives him a slight wave. ]

Hey.

[ if only she had a juicebox to hit him in the face with
for old time's sake, ofc. ]

Good to see you're up and about.

[He can't stay still for too long, he can't sit and wait for his body to feel completely renewed and rested before he's out trawling the streets again, looking for something to keep his mind occupied with. He's not so departed from being injured that he doesn't still have the light bandage wrapped across his middle, to keep himself from straining muscle that might pull at the offending area. Even so, none of this stops Markus from visiting his usual haunts — artist as he is, this often entails poking his head into a local gallery to see if any volunteer work could be arranged.

They don’t need an extra pair of helping hands today (disappointingly, which means Markus must fill his daytime hours with some other endeavor), and just as he’s turning away from speaking to one of the gallery managers, a familiar voice pulls his attention in a different direction.]

Hey.

[Light, soft-spoken, the usual easy grin in greeting. He steps forward, taking a moment to eye her state: better than before, but certainly still sporting the crutches and a less cumbersome cast.]

I'm feeling a lot better than we last met. I’m even cognizant enough to catch whatever you happen to throw at me.

[He jests, it’s all in good humor. But seriously don’t throw anything at him this time.]

You're looking more energetic, too.

[ The only things Aranea has in hand are her crutches. She probably won't throw them at him.

He looks better, too - less peaked, eyes alert, a faint smile as opposed to the curl of bleary-eyed confusion. It's a relief, after the state of their respective injuries. Markus isn't someone she wants to see down and out. ]

Yeah, it's amazing what some emergency surgery and orange juice can do for you.

You work here?

[“Probably” won’t throw them at him.]

To think what might’ve happened if you hadn’t have helped me with my straw.

[Two faint jokes in a row — it must be some kind of record. If anything, it’s proof of Markus’ improved physical and mental state, no longer as wracked with stress as before. As if whatever snapping point looming above him has already come to pass, and now things are slowly falling back into place.]

Emergency surgery or not, it’s promising that you’re up and exploring the city. But no, I don’t work at any of the galleries in this area, though I sometimes drop by to see if there’s any volunteer work that needs to be done. Art installation isn’t always easy. Otherwise, I like to see what’s on display.

What about you? Don’t tell me you’re an art connoisseur.

[Actually do tell him, that’d be great.]

I'm trying to decide which of these I'm gonna buy once I'm rich again.

[ As answers go, it might be a worse one than, "I was told to walk every day and needed to get out of the sun" - but they're both true in their own ways. Half a shrug, confined to one shoulder, and she puts some work into pivoting so she can face the closest row of artwork. This shouldn't be a task that takes a great deal of time, except she's still one-fourth immobile and balancing on cumbersome pieces of plastic, so.

They've talked about her material inclinations before. He's likely not surprised. ]

I don't know much about art, actually... but I like pretty things.

[ A contemplative moment, and then she points to one piece in particular. ]

That one. That'd look great on my wall.

[It doesn't surprise him. He remembers quite clearly the conversation they had before, revolving around both making ends meet and trusting only yourself to do so. That her goal is to reach the status of Rolling In Credits a second time is nothing shocking.

Materialistic, maybe, but even Markus knows that having pockets lined with figurative cash goes a long way in making life more comfortable. He still doesn't know Aranea that well, and he can hardly blame her for it.]

This one...

[Words trail off softly as he follows, following her gesture and scrutinizing the piece. Markus' first impression is that he likes it; it reflects his own painterly style of quick, feathered brush strokes and impressionistic inclinations.]

You like it because it's 'pretty'? I can challenge that viewpoint, and tell you that it looks ominous to me.

What, something ominous can't be pretty too?

[ It's a fairly simple statement for a not-so simple thought. The dark colours and stormy atmosphere don't say ominous to her - she sees life and change in the dark clouds, infinite possbility in the night, an ocean that can touch shores upon shores, miles apart. She feels like she could walk into the painting and go anywhere.

However, Aranea says none of that. ]

Gotta wonder what that says about me.

It definitely can. But in my opinion, one supersedes the other.

[Simple statements or complex ones, in the end, Markus is simply trying to spark a conversation about the art -- and in doing so, peering a little deeper into Aranea as a person. What makes her tick, what she dismisses as unimportant.

It's a tried-and-true tradition of visiting local art galleries, after all. Share some of those thoughts with Markus, Aranea.]

What do you think it says about you? Or, actually... why are you drawn to this piece in general?

[ Her lips press together a little, covering teeth that threaten to grind. Part of her wants to be defensive. Incorrectly, it comes from assuming that her thoughts on the matter are silly - no one has ever taken her for having exemplary opinion on art, after all - and the fact that he pushes past her one-liners and quips, which is... strange. Especially for a man.

Her thoughts, once spoken aloud, are hardly as eloquent or as ordered as they had been when they were merely impressions in her mind. ]

If I was there - [ Hm. A pause.

If it's possible for Aranea to seem unsure of herself, this is as close as anyone may ever see her getting. ]

It looks like a smaller part of the whole. The canves ends there, [ a tiny jab of her finger, indicating ] but the picture doesn't. I'd like to keep walkin' and find out what's next.

[ She looks back at Markus. ]

You're not gonna find any mindblowing insight out of me, you know.

[The last statement sounds latched on. Like she’s trying to defend why her thoughts don’t run deep enough, as if he possesses some looming expectation from those he questions, forever disappointed if they don’t spit out a ten page dissertation.

Sometimes it’s as simple as “I like the colors”, or “I wish I could be there in person”. Markus has viewed plenty of those himself, a few digitally portrayed here in this very gallery, bright swaths of fantastical nature that vitalizes imagination and unearths inspiration. He doesn’t need a complicated answer, he just wants an answer — and he finds it strange that there’s the crease of uncertainty across her brow when she hands it to him.]

That’s all right. [—he says, easily, meaning it. He leans incrementally in her direction, still looking at the piece, as if sharing with her some deep secret.] Let me tell you why I think it’s ominous; the colors are too dark, and the sea looks like it’d swallow me whole.

[Lips quirk upward, blink and you’ll miss it.]

Doesn’t always have to be mind-blowing commentary.

[ As he leans in tinily, her eyes flick from the painting to some indiscriminate point at the side of his face. Her own faint smile helps undo the tension of contemplation from her brow; unlike his, it lingers. ]

So, what one do you like best?

[The question has him detaching his assessment of the painting and looking around, then gesturing across this particular gallery, off to the corner.]

Here, I’ll show you.

[And so he’ll lead the way at a slow pace, cognizant of her injury and her reliance on the crutches.

Eventually, they stop at a piece. It only appears once they draw close, popping up as virtual reality art via their implants — swirling, moving, lurching forward then slowly receding back, like waves on a shore.]

This one is hard to ignore.

[ It does take her an extra moment or two to join him at the next installation, her mobility slow - a tag sluggish - tired, perhaps, from her journey here. Not that she complains, of course. ]

Yeah. You're right about that much.

[ Hard to ignore, indeed. As the art dissolves in, Aranea rubs at an eye. ]

It's... [ Hm. ] Too confused. There's no order. [ Her military discipline, as limited as it might be, balks instinctively. ]

[It’s a little on the extreme side, maybe, but there’s something about the application of paint that echoes Markus’ own style and his propensity for slightly exaggerated color.]

And is that such a bad thing?

[Though to be fair, this one is decidedly very… trippy.]

Dunno yet.

[ Maybe it's just a sign of how old and out of touch she is (that's a joke, she's not old), but she already knows she wouldn't buy this. There's nothing comforting about its ever-moving swirls, no indication of a foothold. She can't figure out where it begins or ends. It - it has no boundaries. It doesn't mesh with the sensibilities of someone who organises her life very carefully.

That one little thought, about boundaries, is the one that sticks. Aranea steals another surreptitious glance at Markus out of the corner of her eye before voicing it. ]

Feels like it'd just take over the entire wall if I brought it home.

[His good humor hasn’t drained from him when she looks askance; in fact, it seems to live on more vibrantly in each moment taken to appreciate the virtual, moving painting.]

Taking on a literal life of its own. I can see why that might bother you.

[It’s interesting, too, to still see it confined in a rectangular shape — he wonders if that was purposeful.]

But if nothing more, it’s a piece that’ll strike up a conversation. Sometimes I think about trying to make something like this; maybe use up the tubes of paint that usually get neglected.

You paint?

[ Aranea glances over, looking suitably intrigued - and a touch paler than she did a second ago, as a knot of pain settles quite cozily in her upper thigh. ]

I do.

[Often. A lot. Came from a household where he was surrounded by art, headed by a prominent artist who remains close to his heart, an endless inspiration.

All of which could be said, of course, if not for Markus’ powers of observation — something that aids him in his propensity to read subtle changes in others — noticing the growing pallor creeping across Aranea’s complexion. Whatever he was going to say next is ignored in favor of concern.]

Tired? Maybe we should find a place to sit.

[There are, after all, such places inside this gallery — but outside, along the expansive square in which this establishment exists, even more so.]

[ Between her teeth, she breathes out - almost a sigh, a little whistle of frustration - but it dies in the wake of his even, articulate reason. He's right. Aranea rubs at her face and then nods. ]

Yeah, why not.

[ The air conditioning is beginning to feel a bit too chilly on her bare arms, so out they go. She does want to hear more about his artistic endeavours, though, and adds, somewhat playfully - ]

You gonna sign my cast?

[ do markers even exist in New Amsterdam ]

[The heat of the sun is stark contrast to the inside air, the former’s warmth quick to spread invisibly across his skin. Markus looks around for a spot to sit and rest, the only suitable place being the curved steps near an interactive water fountain — its spray currently turned off, due to stringent city-wide restrictions.

Markus’ step is unhurried as he leads them in that direction.]

Do you want me to? I can do better than just sign it.

[He doesn’t have markers, but he does have the power of VR.]

[ Setting down, Aranea can't just drop in a graceless, sprawled heap like she might otherwise like to. Instead, she has to carefully adjust her stupid leg to keep it comfortable and even. A flicker of irritation creases her brow for a brief moment, but it isn't because of him; rather, the jolt of pain that courses through. As it dissipates, her face smoothes back out. ]

Line like that, I'm not sure whether to say yes or no.

[ She's just kidding. Mostly.

That said, she definitely needs more information. Reading a the termsna and conditions of a contract before signing, as they might say. ]

Whatcha have in mind?

Edited 2019-02-27 21:56 (UTC)

[He recognizes that wince as pain from sitting and standing, or any mode of movement that either adds or releases tension too quickly around an injury. Never mind being a caretaker android; Markus is suffering from that himself, and his own attempt at sitting is careful and slow, jaw going tight.

They’re just a couple of elderly people, these two.

Still, he can’t help but sound amused.]

It isn’t as ominous as it sounds, I promise. [Gesturing at her cast-] I can paint on it — digitally. Whatever you want.

Yeah?

[ A slow smile creeps across her expression. ]

You any good?

[ The fact that the muscles in his jaw seem to fold when he sits down goes unremarked upon by Aranea, but not unnoticed. Pain is a private thing, or so she's always thought, and his isn't intruded upon. ]

[He grins, looking at her and raising brow.]

I hope so, otherwise someone needs to give me a reality check.

[Especially given the circles he runs in.

Now that he’s seated, the ache is happy to reside in the background, and Markus continues.]

The advantage of VR means that if you hate it, you can delete it. I promise I won’t take too much offense.

I'll hold you to it.

[ Just kidding. No way she'll erase whatever it is. ]

Just make it cool.

[ She rubs at the shorn hair at the nape of her neck, just a little. Part of her enjoys the idea of an artist plying his trade on some part of her, as per her aforementioned appreciation of pretty things. Part of her is almost a bit flustered, as if this is somehow breaking her intention to hold most things at arm's length, because even if it isn't indelible, it feels like it should be. Technology of this level wasn't available in Eos, after all.

On the other hand (the third hand?) - if it's cool, it's okay. That's, like, a law or something. ]

[“Make it cool”. The weak point of every artist: the inability to know what her version of ‘cool’ might be.

He laughs faintly, though it’s cut short by the way it makes his side pang with an ache.]

A cool what, though? You get to pick the subject matter.

[ The bar Aranea works at is neither completely seedy nor exorbitantly upscale, but rather a comfortable between. Not being a server or a bartender, she doesn't get tips - but ninety percent of her work is just her sitting at the bar, waiting for something to happen. An underage patron, a fight between drunks, someone trying to grab the pretty bartender's arm. It's boring, below the paygrade she was very much accustomed to back on Eos, and requires about one-tenth her experience and skillset. On the other hand, the pay is decent enough, keeping her propped up and independant, she can eat at the bar for free, and she likes the people she works with well enough.

On the, uh, third(?) hand — she's since learned what country music is, thanks to this one very determined cover band here every Wednesday, and she hates it. So, there's that.

About an hour before last call, Aranea has to do the only bit of actual work she's done at all night - checking the ID of a short, freckled girl with lingering baby fat and a severe scowl on her face. It will prove to be a frustrating and surprisingly long process. Squeezing in between two stools, she gets right up in the girl's koolaid, their conversation kept in low tones.

Hopefully no one eats the (still hot) nachos Aranea left sitting on the bartop some feet away! ]

[ All he wants after this week is a stiff drink. Maybe several. It doesn't matter, honestly, where he secures that particular reward, and it's his subconscious instinct to avoid anywhere overly memorable. Some middle of the road bar blasting waves of inoffensive, forgettable, slightly out of tune country music out onto the street? Well, that suits him just fine.

The cover band is ignored as he slips into the establishment, not stopped for a brief scan of his chip and whatever ID is logged there -- Sergei Pavlo, really, what a joke -- and that suits him just fine too. Seems security might just be occupied.

And oh, what a familiar face to greet him when he approaches the bar to order himself a glass a bottom-shelf vodka in his own clear, distinctive tone. ]

--what are the odds? [ He has no problem interrupting her when he's done, whether she is or not. Just be thankful that he isn't a thief under normal circumstances, outside of duress, and isn't helping himself to her food. ] Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, I walk into yours.

[ A vaguely familiar voice threatens to interrupt her from her task; briefly, Aranea's eyes flick up over the teenager's frizzy head of hair = oh. A split second of eye contact, recognition that barely changes her expression. Him. Well, he isn't worth disrupting her brief five minutes of legitimate work over eight hours of tedium. She'll deal with him in a minute. ]

I'm telling you, I'm eighteen! I just have a - youthful complexion.

ID says your birthday is in 2496. You're fifteen, and -

Okay, okay! Keep it down. I just - I don't want all my friends to think I'm some... loser cradlebaby.

[ ... Cradlebaby? You know what, whatever. ]

We don't have an age restriction, so you can stay. [ There's a slight roughness to Aranea's tone in the beginning, like she has to wrestle with her temper after being interrupted. She continues - ] Get sprite and tonic, drink it slowly, your "friends" won't know the difference.

[ The younger girl, not especially happy but (thankfully) not wanting to throw a tantrum, rolls her eyes but concedes. Aranea shrugs at the attending bartender and then turns to her next problem. In the small distance around the bar, she's walking of her own power, but slowly. The velcro brace is barely visible in the low light. Reaching past him to tug her nachos close, she addresses Sergei, or whomever. ]

Surprised you even have time for someplace as low key as this. Thought you were a hardworking businessman now.

[ Behind the bar, the woman serving catches Aranea's eye, but she shakes her head in reply. Babysitting isn't the worst way to finish out a shift. At least she won't be bored. ]

We're not gonna have a problem, right?

Edited 2019-02-06 23:10 (UTC)

[ The interaction with the girl gets nothing more than a raised brow from him, not overly fond of kids and feeling more than happy to let her handle it entirely on her own. ]

That depends, you wanna' check my ID too? I'm aging like a fine wine. [ A statement purposefully said loud enough for the woman pouring his drink to hear, perfectly happy to establish himself as a purveyor of bad jokes and wise-cracking. It's always easier that way. ] Thirty-two years young.

Glad to finally hear the dulcet tones of your voice, too. Have to admit, I was expecting something higher pitched. Didn't know you were in the child-herding business either but we all have to make a living. Mine? Does actually afford me time to get a drink after I'm done with my work for the day. I set my own hours.

[ Okay, but when does he stop talking?

Aranea waits out his little speech with a conspicuous eyeroll. Continuing to nibble at her nachos, even though the fake cheese is cooling quickly. At the end of his sentences, she isn't entirely sure what to respond to. ]

Yeah, I don't think anyone is mistaking you for a kid.

[ A moment later, the bartender from the other end pushes over a glass, explaining that someone's ordered it for Aranea ("the gentleman at the table, with his compliments", blah blah blah). Spectacularly lacking in curiosity toward this attempted suitor, she slides it over to Jake without a second thought.

It is extremely pink, and served in a martini glass. ]

You're fine. Just don't touch the bartenders and don't throw up, and we'll get along just peachy.

Edited (everything about this tag fills me with despair) 2019-02-13 23:46 (UTC)

[ n e v e r ]

Thanks. [ With nary a glance offered to the drink, her, or the poor bastard who actually spent money on it, nabbing both it and the one he'd actually ordered for himself. The fruity drink? Is downed almost immediately, three large gulps draining the martini glass before he's honing in on the one he really cares about. In all its vile, extremely potent glory. ]

I'm pretty good at keeping my alcohol down; don't worry too much about me. As for touching the bartenders? I'm not half as thirsty as you might think I am. Well, for more than this, anyway.

How's the leg?

Full of pins, thanks for asking.

[ Her short term mobility is improved enough that she can leave the crutches in the back while she works, provided she doesn't wander too much. It would be a relief, but her job mainly consists of sitting in one place, eating fattening food and waiting for something to happen, so what difference does it make anyway?

Needless to say, he's a (reasonably) welcome distraction from how cranky boredom and pain might otherwise make her. She can't stop harping over it in narration, after all! ]

So, what did you do for a living before you got here?

Well, I like to stay updated on the people that have impacted my life.

[ It's amazing that he manages to retain that cavalier tone even for a line like this, as if they aren't both brutally aware of their own brief history together. Not an amazing track record. ]

Before all this? That's the million dollar question... or sometimes way more and most times way less.

I was a contractor.

[ Aranea props her head up on a hand and lets her fingers curl over a discreet smile. Not an amazing track record, indeed, but she hardly seems annoyed to be reminded of it. ]

I'm just gonna assume you're not referring to building houses.

[ Niflheim'd had military contractors, too. She's not unfamiliar with the concept. He dresses up a fairly unpleasant line of work with a neutral term. Along with the monetary value so neatly slid into his words - it's all familar. She's reminded a little of herself, a few years ago, perhaps. Before the top political tiers had proven thoroughly disillusioning, or before Eos had stared to deteroriate and made things too personal. ]

So it took, what, five seconds here before you resorted to assault and petty theft? [ She doesn't sound too judgmental, for obvious reasons. Her normal amount, or a bit less. ] There were better resources available, you know.

Edited 2019-02-24 16:11 (UTC)

[ It's a rather dull Tuesday night that sees Aranea sitting at her usual spot at the bar, a hot plate of garlic toast beneath her. It isn't that she necessarily wishes for a fight to break out or for someone to drink themselves into a less agreeable state, but on a "good" night, her job consists of sitting in the same place for eight hours and occasionally explaining that no, I can't have a drink with you, I am on the clock.

Needless to say, when Noctis pays a visit, she's quick to give him her undivided attention. ]

Hey, kid. [ Half a smile. ] If you're looking for Four Eyes, [ at some point, that nickname is just inappropriate ] I think he's off tonight.

[ She's assuming that a) Noctis isn't here to see her and b) Noctis isn't here to drink. Then again, maybe he's here to check out the dance floor? ]

[ C) Noctis is definitely not here to check out the dance floor. He dodges the urge to click his tongue when she brings up Ignis's absence, indeed finding it inconvenient to not have a chance to see him too but they can always reconvene at home. Instead-- ]

Ah, doesn't matter... It's worth stopping by anyway. I heard the food's not bad and it's a chance to see if your leg's still in one piece. [ Which is enough to get him to get over his indecision and actually take a seat at the bar, leaving one seat between them for comfort's sake. ]

Yeah, still holding up.

[ Playfully, she gives her thigh a quick rap with her knuckles and makes a pointed sound with her tongue at the same time - effectively, the sound of knocking against wood. ]

Food's pretty good. I'd skip the burgers tonight.

[ Unfortunately, the empty seat between them quickly beomes prime real estate when someome else settles in between them. A toothy grin and a hefty wafting of pomade is turned toward Aranea. ]

Buy you a drink?

... I'm on the clock, and we're [ she gestures to Noctis ] in the middle of a conversation.

[ Eyebrows darting up, the gentleman glances over his shoulder. ]

Oh. Sorry, man.

[ With an apology only for Noctis, he sidles off the seat and disappears back into the depths of the bar booths. Cool. ]

[ Her airy tone actually works something akin to a faint smile out of him, about to lift his head and toss it her way when... well, it ends up pointed at a man's back instead. There's a half-second of confusion before he works out what's just happened, and then those eyes turn skyward in an impressive roll. He's dealt with unwanted attention his entire life and knows the ins and outs of the process well, though Aranea's able to dismiss a would-be suitor far more directly than he'd been able to. (Harsh rejections of blushing school girls aren't really an option when you're royalty and have to view them as subjects you'll one day serve as king.) ]

... I guess it's good he asked first...

Do you have to deal with that a lot? I mean... [ She's pretty; it makes sense. But he can't say that. ] I get it.

[ Her shoulder shifts in half a shrug, not quite disinterested in the subject matter. ]

Some nights are worse than others. This place is a watering hole.

[ She never had the pressure of having to deal with particularly tricky entanglements of rank and courtship; even when she had the 87th, fraternisation had never been an issue, because she simply didn't do it. It would have reflected poorly on her as a leader. Elsewhere - like here, for example, tonight - it's the neatly arranged accident of her looks. She doesn't even get tips for playing along, so why bother? ]

What about you? The handsome prince thing probably sounded like a fairytale waitin' to happen to lots of people.

... what, you mean did people buy me drinks a lot?

[ A joke at least, to start. It's strange actually just sitting here with her, having a normal conversation that isn't punctuated by necessity, violence, or injury. It's nice, inasmuch as he ever finds casual conversation with someone he doesn't know well "nice". ]

Ah, not like that... Girls would give me things, like notes or chocolates or whatever. Mostly they'd just keep their distance and talk, though, which you get used to.

[ It's a lonely, isolating existence... but one Prompto had broken into with a sharp slap on the back and a greeting, one fateful day. ]

[ Aranea can relate to about half of that - men give her things uninvited, certainly, but rarely do they keep their distance and just talk amongst themselves. Noctis has just seen that in action. Hopefully, it'll be the only time tonight, but part of her just wishes he would move over so the seat next to hers would be filled. If she could be bothered moving her leg unnecessarily, she'd do it herself, but, eh. ]

No little girlfriend or anything? No one to hold hands with during school assemblies?

[ She asks, as he reminisces about... Prompto. Well, yeah.

That tracks. ]

[ A busier night at work means all hands on deck. By now, Aranea is fairly mobile and doesn't need to be on modified duties anymore - which is good, as there has already been one fight to break up, at least three people desperate to be overserved or not respecting the space of those behind the bar, and, uh, Ardyn.

Since he is one of the aforementioned behind-the-bar folks, keeping the drunk and disorderly away from him is part of her job. She doesn't hesitate to afford him that same courtesy, professional to the last, but that doesn't mean she likes it.

Ignis is a more palatable presence, by contrast, but it's also very funny to watch him get hit on all night.

In the hours before last call (four a.m. on weekends, why is this their life), once the music has to be quieted to comply with neighbourhood noise regulations... ]

Hey, Chancellor. Get me a pizza.

[ 1. He's not on the kitchen staff - but someone has to take orders, ig.
2. Since she eats for free, this is not the first time she's asked him to get her food tonight. We have to take the simple pleasures where we can. ]

[Naturally, a busier night means that Ardyn is kept busy, order after order slung his way. But stress is a faraway thing, applied to people who care about the here and now, who worry about their jobs and performance of them — Ardyn is not one of those people. This is a passing whim, this need for “steady” income, and the only thing that keeps his interest flaring are his co-workers; that being, of course, the ones specifically from Eos.

One of whom, the Commodore, is leaning near the bar, requesting food from none other than himself.

He smiles at her, a flash of white teeth. She’s seen it again and again, and it shines brighter in the lurid lights of this place, gone dazzling neon when the night stretches on into the late hours, twisting into early morning.

Ardyn’s cleaning glasses now, because of course he is. The one in his hand squeaks shrilly against the rag in his other.]

Can’t you see? I’m rather busy at the moment. Ignis can do it for you, I’m sure. [Calling over to his other co-worker from Eos:] Is that right?!

[Unlike Aranea, who had been hanging out and watching for trouble, and Ardyn who had been doing.... whatever it is he even does here (Bartend, supposedly. Just sort of hang about and make things that much more irritating for himself and Aranea, more often than not), Ignis had been fairly constantly on the move all night. Polite smiles and attention to the customers, catching whatever conversation fluttered across the bar-- because as basic as this job is, he still has a distinct pride in it.

He's got a shaker in one hand (The ice-on-metal noise tempered due to the lack of real ice given the water shortages- but the reusable frozen cubes seem to work well enough nonetheless-) and a martini glass in the other, flickering his eyes in Ardyn's direction as soon as he catches his name.

Of course it's pawning off something else on him again. And, bitterly, he knows the man would be equally pleased by his acquiescence, and by his refusal, each of them just a different move in whatever game the man is playing.]

-Momentarily. Customers come first, unfortunately. [A pause, as he begins pouring the fluorescent drink into the glass, to the delight of the sloppy-drunk customer sitting in front of him.]

Though I do believe we have enough glasses for the moment. If you'd so kindly just put the order in to the kitchens to start. I'll fetch it for her afterwards.

[In his mind, it's a decent compromise. Make the man do something, don't trust him with actually making contact with an ally's food.]

[ She certainly hadn't meant for her petty request to be palmed off on Ignis, but trusting Ardyn not to take the most unpleasant route possible in response to her childishness. A brief, apologetic pull of the mouth - an awkward smile, half a wince, partly - is chanced Ignis's way.

Then, when a very familiar sound floats up from somewhere behind them, Aranea rolls her eyes and starts to slide off her barstool. With her leg still tightly braced up, it takes her a few seconds.

brb, boys. gotta deal with someone who drank themselves sick. ]

Of course we’ve enough glasses to spare. We’re surrounded by them. [He laughs lightly, lost in the ambient noise of the crowd just beyond the bar. He realizes that’s not the point, but anyone should know that Ardyn twists around words purposefully.] But that’s hardly a reason to let them sit dirtied while I’ve time to clean them.

[CLEANS THIS PARTICULAR GLASS VERY POINTEDLY]

Oh, I’ll put in the order, I suppose, since you’re so busy at the moment. [He tilts his head in Aranea’s direction, who’s gone off to stop a drunk from getting too rowdy. A common sight in an establishment like this.]

But she’s preoccupied, too. The pizza can wait a minute or two more.

[Sure, Aranea can request for him to do this-and-that, go to-and-fro, and Ardyn can comply… but he’ll do so while smiling and dragging his feet the entire time.]

[There's a few moments before he responds- Updating his implant's notes on the woman he had just served with the time of her order, what he had made, attaching it to the facial recognition to make sure he'd have it should she approach the counter again- and then giving the shaker a quick wipe-down, before depositing it into the oddly-glowing UV sterilizer built into the counter.]

I'm sure you have time to do a great many things.

[Like fuck off. That's a thing you have time to do, Ardyn.

Still, there's a tight-lipped, forced smile as he shrugs at the man's weaseling out of actually doing anything.]

Well, I suppose they do say cleanliness is next to godliness. Maybe if you're get enough practice here, when we get back home you can shine Ramuh's boots.

[ It takes about five minutes for Aranea to return to the bar, and when she does, she has one (1) very intoxicated individual in tow. That is, a young man is leaning against her, feet every which way, head lolling forward. She's got her arm around his back and supports his weight easily, even with her injury still lingering. The front of his shirt is, uh, quite stained. With what, you may ask? Who knows. Aranea certainly doesn't. She's also not hurrying to find out.

A bit unceremoniously, she pushes him into a seat at the bar. One hand is kept on the top of his head, the other holding his chin up. ]

Hey. [ She snaps her fingers at whoever's closest. ] Get me a glass of water.

[ From a commodore in the imperial army to ensuring drunks don't choke on their own vomit... Aranea bites back a sigh, barely, and does the job in front of her. ]

catch-all.

» markus.

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» jake.

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» noctis.

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» ardyn, ignis.

I’m finally here

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whoops hi guys......